Never Knowing
by ToryTigress92
Summary: She was his mistress, his Queen, an old saviour, and the faithful wife of the King. She looked on him with kindness and gratitude, a lowly Druid who had saved the life of the Once and Future King. One glance would be all it took, to set them both on a dangerous path, the consequences of which would rule the Destiny of Albion, long after the Battle of Camlann.


Never Knowing

Warnings: Character death, some sensual content and violence. Spoilers for the whole of Season 5.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

* * *

The first time she saw him again, it was when Arthur knighted him before the court of Camelot.

The boy, now a man, who had saved her husband's life.

He knelt before Arthur, dark-haired and strong, nearly the same height as the King, and his body broad-shouldered and burly. The red cloak draped his form well, making the raven curls of his hair seem all the darker and more vibrant than before.

She remembered the small frightened boy that Merlin and Morgana had hidden in her chambers, oh so many years before. His piercing, liquid blue eyes had struck her even then, left her uneasy, but still determined to help Morgana save him from Uther's cruelty.

Much had changed.

Her dearest friend and Lady had become as cold and cruel as Uther, turning against them all, until she was twisted and dark, a towering, menacing pillar of all that was sinister about magic. Despite all that magic had done to harm her, Gwen had never seen it as wholly evil, and that was why she had helped the Druid boy.

The boy who now knelt before her a man. A Knight of Camelot.

And she herself, was changed almost beyond recognition. She was Queen, a lowly servant elevated to the highest status of all. Yet she was still bound to serve, but now she served the people of Camelot, not one noblewoman alone.

And beneath it all, beneath the silks, the jewels, the furs and robes of her rank as Arthur's Queen, she was still just Gwen.

* * *

As applause filled the great hall of Camelot, Mordred raised his head, smiling warmly, and Gwen returned his smile graciously, as a Queen should of the man who saved her husband's life.

Mordred had few memories of the woman sat before him in her throne, now risen so high, yet her gaze was warm, friendly, not haughty or cool. His memories of those few days he hid within Morgana's chamber, recovering from his wound and the fever, were hazy, more than a rush of sensations and emotions than crystal clear images. But he remembered she had been kind, and helped him in their attempt to escape Camelot and the tyrant's grasp.

She had been beautiful even then, in the drab dresses of a maidservant, her caramel hair tightly bound, but now she sat before him in the gown of a Queen, vivid scarlet, embroidered with intricate gold thread, her hair falling in riotous curls, restrained only by a gold diadem, that sat proudly on her forehead.

But it was not even the sight of her, her beauty unleashed, regal and enthralling, that made him stare a moment too long. It was the look in her eyes.

Beneath the regalia of a Queen, the warmth and empathy of the serving girl remained.

For some reason, it warmed his heart to think of it, and he lowered his eyes hastily, as she rose, graceful and lithe, like a doe.

"I must add my thanks to those of my husband, Sir Mordred," she murmured, smiling down at him. "For saving my husband and showing him kindness, despite risk to your own life."

"It was nothing, my Queen," he murmured, his voice a husky purr. "No more and no less than anyone here, in this hall, would have done."

"True," Gwen smiled. "Remember such dedication and loyalty, Sir Mordred, and you shall be the very best of knights, I am certain of it."

"Thank you, my lady," he breathed. "I swear fealty and loyalty to you, also, and to protect you with my life."

Gwen knew Mordred's words had pleased Arthur, as she felt his glowing glance at her, and she smiled once more, her heart warm. She extended her hand, and Mordred kissed it, his lips lightly brushing her knuckles.

Her skin tingled, her lungs tightened but Gwen pushed the feeling aside, pulling her hand back and retaking her seat as applause broke out once more. Looking out over the assembled knights and courtiers, she saw the approval in their eyes, and was glad no one else had noticed her moment of weakness.

It was nothing, merely a momentary reaction to a gesture both intimate and gallant. Nothing more.

* * *

They rarely spoke after that day, but Gwen was aware of his gaze when they were in company. At meetings of the Round Table, or at feasts. She told herself it was merely the admiration and the respect she received from Sir Leon, or Percival, or Gwaine.

But the way he watched her, piercing through the mask of royalty she now wore, was not merely respectful or admiring. It was something else, but Gwen would not acknowledge it.

Not again. She was in love with Arthur; she _**loved**_ Arthur, no one else. And even if such feelings were reciprocated in theory, she would never act on them. She was loyal to her lord and husband.

Lancelot had been her first love, a connection and an empathy of two people of the same station and the desire to be seen as more than just their social status. Arthur was the love of her life, now a friend even closer than Merlin was, and the greatest of men. Hers was a life full and complete, and any momentary weakness would soon dissipate.

* * *

Mordred watched the Queen, as the days passed. She was not often in his sight, except at council and sometimes she watched the Knights' sparring, laughing as her husband jested with his men and with his manservant.

He was worried. Arthur, it seemed, had or never had connected his birth as a Druid with possessing the ability to use magic, but his Queen was less trusting. She was fiercely protective of Arthur, and rightly so. Their love had been hard won, or so Elyan confided to him once at supper.

He wondered if the Queen remembered the broken glass in Morgana's chambers, the day Cerdan was executed, and the presence of a magical child.

As the weeks passed, there came no sign that she remembered or had told Arthur of his true identity, and so he began to relax, but never could he stop watching her.

She was breathtaking. She moved with such poise and self-possession, not that of Morgana, the born-noblewoman, but of the learned, the humble, who recognised the power they wielded and the responsibility it entailed. Never did he see her speak crossly to a servant, or impatiently to any beneath her. She treated all with kindness and gentility, including him in their few exchanges, no more than pleasantries in the corridor.

However, he was always careful, guarded. A lifetime's caution could not be overdone so easily by one woman's compassion.

* * *

Guinevere felt his caution, felt his fear. She remembered his power, remembered cleaning up the glass shards on the floor of Morgana's chambers that day the sorcerer was executed.

Despite what many expected, she held little ill will towards the Old Religion and its practitioners. It was a force neither for good nor evil, it simply was. Even she, with no aptitude or desire for magical power, understood that.

And she could only guess at a life lived in such fear. She could not bear the thought of him living in fear any longer. She would keep his secret.

One morning, she left her chambers, shrouded in her warmest cloak, hoping to catch the young Knight as he left morning training. Arthur trained his Knights hard, but it had made them the best in the land, bar only barbarians like the Sarrum, who fought without mercy or honour, unlike the Knights of Camelot.

She watched as he sparred with Leon that morning, the early sunlight, weak in winter, gilded his dark curls, dampened with dew and sweat, as they went through the motions of the duel as if dancing. Guinevere had gained more skill with a sword, if only as a caution, but even she could tell Mordred would one day rival even Arthur.

This morning, however, Mordred seemed distracted and Leon disarmed him after a lengthy fight, but Arthur was not displeased as he stepped into view and congratulated them both, clapping Mordred on the shoulder and quickly giving him advice on his technique.

The younger man glowed with pride and concentration, but as his eyes flitted to her hiding place, she realised he sensed her presence.

Mordred had felt the Queen's eyes on him from the moment she had stopped within the shadows of the training yard to watch. Uneasy, he had pondered what she was doing there; losing focus and letting himself make mistakes.

He wondered if she had decided to confront him after all, about his magic, and issue an ultimatum.

He had felt her gaze like a wave of flame passing over his skin, and he closed his eyes as Leon and Arthur left his side, as the other Knights were dismissed, to bathe and ready themselves for Council.

He waited, until the sounds of boots and chain mail jingling faded away, before turning and walking back into the citadel.

"Sir Mordred!" her clear voice rang out behind him, and he paused before turning and bowing as she glided up to him, her velvet cloak billowing behind her, her long curls loose and free. "May I speak with you a moment?"

"Yes, my Queen," he replied, waiting until she reached him before slowly walking on, in step with one another. "What is it you wish to speak with me about?"

"Merely to ask how you fare?" she answered. "Is Camelot to your liking?"

"Greatly, my Queen," Mordred replied, frowning slightly. "I feel very fortunate to have been accepted here."

"Camelot is a changed place, Sir Mordred," Guinevere replied, with a smile. "More open, more accepting. Here, birth no longer matters, only what is in our hearts." At that she stopped, facing him with a gentle smile that enthralled him entirely. "I remember you, as a child, Mordred. I remember the little boy Morgana and Arthur smuggled to safety from Uther's cruelty."

Mordred struggled not to show any sign of unease, just watched her guardedly, inwardly surprised when a tinge of sadness entered her gaze. "As do I, my Lady," he finally murmured, almost silently. "You must believe that I bear no ill will to Camelot, the King or you, my Lady. I would serve and protect you with my life."

"I know," she assured him quietly. "I can see it in your eyes. And know this, Sir Mordred, Knight of Camelot. Your secret is safe with me, until the time for secrets is over."

"Thank you, my Lady," he breathed, kneeling at her feet, uncaring about anyone watching. "I swear again my oath to protect and serve you. I would die for you, my Queen."

Guinevere felt something within her seize at those words, a shudder running down her back, as his lips brushed her fingertips. "I hope it never comes to that," she whispered, a chill which had nothing to do with the winter wind infusing her every limb.

They parted ways, but Mordred continued to watch and Guinevere felt his gaze, from that day forward.

* * *

They rarely spoke beyond that day, but words were not needed; only the weight of Mordred's gaze as it followed Guinevere.

She felt it even as she say by Arthur's side in Council, as she watched them spar, as they sat side by side at feasts, as she rode her horse with her escort, to which Mordred had been attached only recently.

One day she finally met his gaze, icy blue eyes burning with heat and devotion, and felt herself tremble.

* * *

He slipped into the physician's chambers, when he heard of her injury. No-one knew how it happened, how the Queen had nearly been killed by a fire in a storeroom, but Mordred felt the fire of loathing and hatred rage inside of him, as he stared down at his Queen, sickly and still beneath the covers of the cot. He stood, silent and paralysed, wanting to kill whoever had harmed his sweet Queen, even as he could not leave her side.

Instead he stood guard and watched over her. Arthur saw it only as proper devotion to his Queen, Gaius smiled knowingly. The Physician likely saw it only as a boyish infatuation. Emrys's thoughts, he knew not and came to care little.

He stood and watched over his Queen, his heart aching with all he felt.

* * *

After she had recovered, she heard of Mordred's devotion.

As she sat in her chambers, sitting at the window, enjoying the sunlight, she turned her gaze inward and examined her feelings for the young Knight.

They had barely spoken beyond that hushed interlude in the corridors of the citadel, after training. They had never touched except for the honourable touches of a servant to his mistress.

All she knew was that she could feel his gaze on her, wherever she went, no matter if he was in her presence or not. She could feel him at the very core of her soul, his features coming to her mind's eye with perfect clarity.

She loved Arthur. She knew she did. She didn't know if she loved Mordred.

* * *

He saw her at the window, framed in golden sunlight, still weakened by her ordeal but so strong within. He could not say he knew her, not really, but he saw the anguish and the uncertainty in her eyes, the blindness of one who looked inward and saw nothing else around them. She was thinking about something.

He had never felt love, not personally. He had felt what it was to be loved, briefly, by Cerdan, by Morgana, but his old master was dead and the woman he had looked up to almost as a mother was become cold and insane with hatred.

There had been someone once, who he thought he had loved but their time had been short and they were only children when he saw her last. But he didn't know how to be sure he had loved her.

He was sure he loved the Queen. He knew he loved her.

The fire in his heart could come to nothing. It made him feel powerful, strong, even as he knew it would never be reciprocated. The Queen's devotion to Arthur was legendary, and he would never seek to cause pain either to the woman he loved or the King he served and admired.

One thing he could do, and that was care for her from afar. And he continued to watch, and love, unceasingly from the shadows.

* * *

She had watched them spar thousands of times, but this time, it was different. This time, she was uncertain, conflicted, as she watched from the battlements.

Her husband was powerful and strong, like some pagan God of War restored to the earth in human form. The sight of him, though she did not love violence, had always made her breath hitch.

But now, watching Mordred, his pale skin slick with exertion and his dark curls flying, an entirely new feeling washed over her, insidious and heated, and she tried so hard to fight it back. Fear, irrational and cold, seized her heart time and time again, as Mordred, then Arthur, regained dominance in the fight. With every passing day, the younger man was growing in strength and skill.

One day, he would be Arthur's equal.

The duel ended with Mordred disarmed, panting on his back. She found her eyes lingering on the way his chest rose and fell, before coming back to herself and walking away quickly, before anyone saw her being so foolish.

She was sat in their chambers when the news came of the attack at Brechfa and the death of Sir Ranulf. While she had only vague recollections of the handsome, young knight, she knew that Arthur would wish to avenge his death personally.

Arthur soon came in, preparing to leave as he hastily told her of his decision. She sighed, shaking her head exasperatedly at his stubbornness.

"Is it necessary for you to go in person?" she asked. Always Arthur felt the need to be with his men, and some part of Guinevere wished, just once, he would choose to stay with her. But that was not Arthur, not the man she loved, so she pushed her resentment aside determinedly as he answered.

"A king must lead or what's the point of him?"

"You led the men when you saved Mithian's father, and I nearly lost you," she replied firmly, naming her worst fear. The death of the man she loved.

"Sir Ranulf's death cannot go unpunished," he replied, glancing up at her once before looking to his maps. Knowing her cause was lost, but unwilling to give up, Guinevere spoke again.

"You have many fine men to avenge him!"

"He wasn't just a knight, Guinevere, he was a friend," he replied, gently, meeting her eyes with a silent plea for her to understand. "We knew each other as boys. I must go."

Guinevere sighed and looked down, accepting his decision. He would what he must, as always.

"Have no fear," he continued, in a happier voice. "I'll be perfectly safe. As you say, I have many fine knights."

Just then a knock came at the door, and Guinevere sensed him before he entered. Mordred.

Heat rushed over her skin as she felt his eyes on her, as she forced herself to meet his gaze with nothing more than cool graciousness.

* * *

The moment Mordred entered, he inhaled the soft musk of the Queen's perfume, heady and subtle, wreathing his senses, calling to the magic hidden deep within him. She sat, robed in sunlight, the skirts of her sapphire gown pooling around her feet. The curls of her hair shone, and the weakness he had glimpsed after she had awoken from her accident was gone from her eyes and face.

Remembering his purpose, Mordred tore his eyes away and met his King's respectfully.

"You wished to see me, sire?"

"Mordred, come in, come in," Arthur beckoned absentmindedly, not noticing the way Guinevere tensed at Mordred's arrival, nor the momentary flare of heat in Mordred's eyes when he looked at his Queen. "The time has come for you to accompany your King."

For a moment, pride suffused latent desire, and Mordred started. "My lord?"

"I want you to join me on a patrol to the White Mountains," Arthur told him warmly, callused hands sketching out a route on the maps covering the table. Mordred followed his hands intently, a warm glow suffusing him at Arthur's show of trust, so much so, he almost forgot the presence of the Queen.

Almost.

"Me? To Brechfa?" he stammered, glancing at the Queen, as she smiled warmly, and he felt the weight of her own trust settle on his shoulders. He accepted it gladly.

"Congratulations," Arthur replied graciously, as Mordred stared back.

"This is a great honour! I-I…" he babbled, but Arthur cut him off, patting his arm with a brotherly smile.

"You've earned your place. Be ready to ride at dawn," and with that he was dismissed, but he lingered, unable to avoid stammering his thanks like the earnest young boy he once was.

"I shall, my Lord. You won't regret this, I promise," he breathed as he paused before the door, meeting first Arthur's eyes, then Guinevere's, in a silent vow.

Once Mordred left, Guinevere breathed easier again, as Arthur smiled to her.

"He has all the makings of an excellent Knight."

"I do believe you have grown fond of him," she replied with a fond smile of her own. Arthur was so warm-hearted and kind, to any and all walks of life. Well, to almost any.

"Just one of those things I do," he replied with a cocky grin, leaving their chambers to see to his own preparations. Guinevere's smile faded, as her thoughts turned once again to Mordred, and she uneasily wondered how Arthur would react, should Mordred's true identity ever become known.

She pushed aside such thoughts. Arthur was wise and merciful; if Mordred's magical power was ever discovered, she was sure his heart would remember the boy's loyalty and ignore his deception, necessary as it still was.

* * *

Before dawn, she slipped from bed, swathed in her darkest cloak, and into the knights' quarters. It was so dangerous, but she needed to see him before he left.

She could always trust Merlin to safeguard Arthur's life, but he was just a man. He could not protect him from everything. Mordred, on the other hand, was something more.

He was busy packing, his servant busy fetching supplies for the youngest of the Knights of Camelot, the candlelight burnishing his raven dark curls. He started when he heard her footsteps and whirled, his eyes widening as he sank into a bow.

"My lady!" he breathed, as she lowered her hood. "What service might I do you?"

"You know better than most what Arthur rides against," she began, stepping forward until they stood close. It was a mistake as she inhaled, the scent of leather and soap penetrating her senses, and a note of something else, some indefinable but so much a part of him. Some instinctive part of Guinevere knew what it was.

Magic.

"Please," she continued, barely pausing for breath. "Protect him for me. Bring him back to me."

"I would give my life for him, my Queen," he assured her urgently. "And for you."

As his eyes met hers, in the dim candlelight of his chamber, Guinevere felt her body thrill to the forbidden, a fire rushing through her veins. From the way Mordred's chest rose and fell so raggedly, and the reciprocal flames in his eyes, she surmised he felt it too.

"Thank you, Mordred," she whispered. "You will always have my undying gratitude."

He wished it were more, but pushed the thought aside, as she turned and left as silently as she came, a shadow before the dawn. With a sigh, he turned away to continue packing.

* * *

When Mordred was brought back, so nearly dead, after saving Arthur's life; Guinevere felt her soul convulse. The quest to seek out the Disir and the meaning of the strange, unnerving token Arthur had been given had ended in failure and the injury of one of their own.

She felt Arthur's grief and guilt, and buried her own for his sake.

As she sat, watching over the young Knight, she felt her grief and her guilt rise back up. It was likely he would have sacrificed himself anyway, for his King but she still felt like it was her fault; that her plea for him to protect Arthur had manipulated Mordred into giving everything.

She knew he had feelings for her. She was a fool to think they were shallow enough not to rule him.

She sat beside him when her duties allowed it, after Arthur left again to seek the Disir. He remained unchanged, deathly pale, the wound beneath the bandages sickly and poisonous looking.

When Gaius asked her why she showed such devotion, she was shorter than she would normally have been.

"I do so because he saved my husband's life," she snapped. "I owe him this, at least, so he is not alone if the worst should happen."

The royal physician had left them alone after that. She sat by Mordred's side, her eyes roving his bare torso, feeling slightly shameful for looking over him so closely when he was unconscious, but she could not stop herself.

Remembering the _triskelion_ that had once adorned his chest and shoulder, she wondered how he had hidden it. Sorcery?

He was a beautiful man. Not golden and muscular like Arthur, but wiry, dark and as swift as the shadows that passed across the moon. He was fire and mystery and power, hidden, but very much there. Sitting by his side, watching him as he slowly succumbed to the poison in his veins, Guinevere truly felt the first stirrings of anger against magic flower within her.

He would not die. He must not die.

"Mordred," she whispered, leaning over him to softly whisper against his forehead. "You must not die. You cannot. Come back to us, come back to me."

She closed her eyes as she kissed his forehead, salty against her lips.

* * *

On the fourth day since Arthur and Merlin left on their quest, Mordred stirred from his delirium for the first time.

He opened his eyes, weak as a newborn kitten, as Guinevere met his tired blue gaze. Smiling joyously, she called for Gaius, who was astonished at the recovery of his patient.

As the physician fussed and examined his patient, Guinevere waited patiently, until he disappeared for a short time to prepare a tonic. With a soft smile, she approached the bed where he had lain, close to death.

His recovery could mean only one thing. Arthur had succeeded.

"How are you feeling?" she asked warmly. He smiled tiredly.

"Weak, but I can feel my strength returning," he admitted, and she nodded with relief.

"Then I shall leave you to rest," she breathed, rising, sapphire skirts _shushing_ with her graceful movements, but in a moment of boldness, Mordred caught her hand.

"I heard your voice. Calling my name," he murmured, as Guinevere felt her heart race. "You pulled me back from the darkness. Thank you."

He did not tell her he had heard her desperate plea to come back to her, even in the shadows of his delirium. The warmth of that knowledge he kept to himself, giving him hope even through the darkness of the following months, after Elyan's death and the Queen changed.

* * *

The warmth fled from her eyes and she now, when she believed no one was watching, looked cold and calculating; an insanity deep in the depths of her once kind heart that he had seen once before.

In Morgana.

He didn't know what, or how, and he had no evidence so he could not go to the King or Merlin. He didn't know if Merlin sensed what he did.

He sensed something was afoot when the levy route was changed, and Merlin began acting so strangely. Glimpsing the sapphire blue sleeve of the Queen's gown, when Gaius and Merlin hurried past with a cart full of supposedly infected bedding, only strengthened his suspicions.

As soon as he realised the King and Merlin were missing, he saddled his horse and set out to follow them, tracking them to the Cauldron of Arianrhod.

The name was a legend among his people, but he knew little more than that.

The wind blew chill through his armour, as he found their horses, tethered to some rocks. On foot, in the bleak stoniness of the mountains they would be harder to track.

However shouts filled his ears, as he ran along the path, and he was grateful for the rope he had brought with him, as he found the Queen, abandoned by a cliff edge. Kneeling by her side, Mordred caressed her face tenderly, the only time he would dare do so, as she slept on, unaware of the plight of her friends.

As he peered over the edge, his heart dropped. Merlin lay, some feet away, unconscious, while the King lay with his arm trapped by a fallen boulder. Mordred could see where the cliff edge had given way beneath them.

"Arthur!" he cried, prompting the struggling man to look up at him in relief and wonder.

"Check on Guinevere!" he shouted back urgently.

"I already have, Sire. She sleeps soundly!" Mordred replied before tethering the rope to some rock, then throwing it over the side. He lowered himself down carefully, then rushed to the King's side. Together, with a collective groan of effort, they pulled the boulder up enough that Arthur could pull his arm free, then they rushed to Merlin's side, Mordred touched by the King's genuine concern for Merlin.

"Typical Merlin. Always has to make things as difficult as possible," Arthur muttered, with an affectionate exasperation, as they worked to revive him and return to the Queen.

Later, when they were safe and stopped for the night, Arthur and Merlin confided in him the reason for their journey.

All of Mordred's worst nightmares came true, and he felt a bubble of rage build in him at the thought of his Queen and love at the mercy of Morgana's hatred.

Arthur seemed pleased to have him with them, but Merlin seemed reluctant to trust him, as always. He doubted he would ever understand or gain the great sorcerer's trust, but for the moment he pushed the resentment aside. Merlin always had, and ever would have, the King's best interests at heart. He could not fault him for that, and he would work to make himself worthy of Merlin's trust, and the King's, so one day, the sorcerer would have no choice but to give it to him.

He volunteered to take the first watch, while Merlin and Arthur bedded down for the night. As he sat by the fire, feeling its warmth flicker over him, he watched unceasingly over the still, unmoving form of the Queen.

Everything they had told him, everything he had sensed or suspected in the past month since Elyan's death, rushed through his mind.

He heard of the ritual, the Teine Diaga, and his heart ached with the thought of the pain and the fear Guinevere must have suffered at the hands of Morgana. He knew only rumours, but they were enough. He prayed with all his might to the Gods of Old that they might succeed in bringing her back from the darkness. He would give his life to bring her back, if need be.

The chance seemingly came sooner than he'd anticipated. All he could remember was running by Merlin's side then nothingness as he had been thrown forward onto the hard stone of the path.

As he awoke, he felt the chill of the wind, and a soft glove tenderly stroking his cheek. As he opened his eyes, he froze, tense as the rock beneath him.

Morgana.

The High Priestess looked gaunt and ill, clad in ragged black, her tangled curls flowing in the wind. Her eyes, filled with madness and power, looked down on him gently, reminding him of the woman he had adored once.

Then he remembered what she did to Guinevere, and his anger rose even as his voice was calm. "Why don't you kill me?" he asked.

"My argument's not with you, Mordred. How could it be? We're of a kind," she murmured sadly, as he recoiled and stood apart from her.

"Never!" he breathed. Never like her, he would never do to anyone what she had done to Guinevere. His Queen.

Bitterness and anger bled back into Morgana's eyes, as she faced him, darkness flowing from her every pore, threatening as a thunder storm. "You wear the uniform well, but we both know what lies beneath!" she hissed at him. "Do you think Arthur would tolerate you for one minute if he knew the truth? One of his Knights, a sorcerer?"

"One day, he will know. One day, we will be accepted," Mordred replied quietly but with certainty. Emrys would make it so.

"Your naivety would be charming if it wasn't so dangerous," Morgana retorted derisively. "Where's Emrys?"

"Emrys?" Mordred asked, playing for time. He would not betray the sorcerer.

"You pretend you do not know of whom I speak?" Morgana snarled contemptuously, the disappointment and bitterness in her eyes turning to rage and disbelief.

"It is a name I've only heard of," Mordred replied, and it was a truth. He could not say he knew Emrys, that he knew Merlin. The sorcerer's distrust would not allow him closer knowledge.

"He's not here? With you?" she asked, and he heard the tremor of fear in her voice, feeling shock strike him for a moment. Morgana feared Emrys, for some reason, greater than any other in Avalon.

"If he was, would we both not feel the presence of such a great sorcerer?" he asked, holding his hands out as he spoke. He didn't know why Merlin shielded his magic, or if he even knew he did it, but that had to be part of the reason why he had never been discovered by other sorcerers before, beyond those who knew his given name and his appearance.

Morgana paused, looking inward for a moment, before she raised cold eyes to his, as if reassured of her own safety. "Then I have no further use for you!"

She raised her hand, and he cried out in desperation and a plea, to the ragged tatters of the woman he had adored as a child, that he knew still lay within her somewhere. "You would strike one of your own?" she stopped, and he continued, feeling anger in him as well as pity, as he gathered his magic, long-dormant but still potent. "I am not strong enough to defeat you, Morgana, but know this. Such hatred as yours can never triumph. I hope one day you will find the love and compassion which used to fill your heart."

The Priestess's eyes had filled with tears and she trembled. Seizing his chance, he pushed her away with his magic, sending her flying back until she hit the ground, unconscious.

He truly pitied the fallen Priestess. So much anger and hate, dooming her to loneliness and darkness. Where had the old Morgana gone? Could she ever return?

Mordred did not have the foresight to know, and as he turned away, breaking into a run, he felt the anger bleed away, leaving him empty.

* * *

That anger returned as he stood, only moments later, watching helplessly as Arthur grappled with Guinevere, while the mysterious, and rather suspicious, Dolma looked on worriedly.

At first it seemed Arthur could not prevail, and the evil of Morgana was too strong within Guinevere to be fought. Silently, he willed her to listen, to hear and to fight.

She was strong, his Queen, she could fight this.

Unknowingly, he shifted into her line of vision, drawing her scornful gaze as poison dripped from her lips, lacerating the faithful King's heart with every word. It was only a moment, but he saw a gleam, a shadow of the true Guinevere rise, and he longed to call out to her with all of his being. But he could not, it was not his place but Arthur's.

But that moment, shorter than a heartbeat, had been enough to give him hope.

The pause, that brief moment of clarity in Guinevere's eyes, gave Arthur time to pull her back into his arms, forcing her attention back to him as he spoke quietly, but urgently, with emotion in every syllable. It almost made Mordred ashamed of the love that filled his own heart, but he could not deny it.

"Look at me!" Arthur breathed. "Tell me you don't love me."

"Let me go!" the Queen struggled like a wildcat, but Arthur's grip was unbreakable. Silently, Mordred stretched out with his magic, calling Guinevere's name in his mind, even though he knew she could not hear him. Her eyes shot to his, then back to Arthur's.

"You remember when I asked you to marry me? Do you remember what you said?" Arthur asked gently. "You said 'With all my heart.'. That's what you said. That was no subterfuge, no trickery."

She stopped fighting, her eyes locked on Arthur's as his grip loosened and he stepped back into the Cauldron, repeating her words over and over again.

Hope bloomed inside Mordred, and he inhaled sharply as the Queen murmured brokenly, "With all my heart…"

Tears had filled her eyes, and he felt his heart break, as for one last moment, her eyes met his, even as the same words fell from her lips. "With all my heart…"

"Come." Arthur's gentle command broke the spell, as Guinevere walked stumblingly into the water, and Mordred and the Dolma watched her go. With all his hope and love, Mordred prayed.

_Please…please send her back to us. Send her back to me…_

"_Yfel gaest, ga thu fram thisselichaman. Bith hire mod eft freo. Ar ond heofnutungol sceal thurhswithan!" _The Dolma's voice echoed powerfully around the Cauldron, as Mordred felt the magic rise, ancient and unstoppable, as the Queen was consumed by a cloud of white light.

It faded, and Mordred held his breath. What if it had not worked…? What if…?

Guinevere turned around, and the smile on her face, radiant and free, made him breathe again. She was cleansed and free. The woman he loved had returned.

She held out her arms to Arthur beseechingly, and for a moment he longed to feel those arms around him, as jealously bit deep, but he pushed it away. His fists curled, but his heart soared when her eyes rose to his over the King's shoulder, and for a moment, they burned with everything he felt, and he knew heaven.

* * *

When they returned to Camelot, Arthur appointed him Guinevere's personal guard whenever she went riding. As he joked, if he could escape the likes of a High Priestess unscathed, he could surely protect the Queen.

Their first ride together was silent and respectful, as he did not know how she might react to their closer interaction. If she demanded it of him, he would not distress her by speaking of his feelings.

Their second ride and warmer, and he felt it spread through like a balm as they talked of nonsensical things, unimportant things such as his training and the ways of the Court. The Queen was both funny and perceptive in closer surrounds, and Mordred found himself laughing more with every moment spent in her company.

But sometimes, he caught a haunted look in her eye and knew she was still distressed by what had happened during her bewitchment by Morgana. It was also the first time she was able to properly mourn Elyan's death, with the sorcereress's evil twisting her perceptions.

Some weeks later, they were out for a ride, when she stopped her horse and turned to him, her gentle frame framed by the maroon velvet of her riding cloak.

"Mordred, do you know what it feels like? To be so controlled by something you cannot do anything but watch, helpless?" she asked. He met her gaze squarely.

"I have known what it is to be forced to do something against your will, and feel helpless, but not as you have known it, my Queen," he replied gently. "It still haunts you."

"Arthur tells me it was not my fault, but I cannot help but feel some guilt," she breathed, turning her head away. Mordred watched her, concerned. There had been more in her eyes than guilt a moment ago. "And shame. She was so lonely, Mordred, so lost, so alone. I hate her for what she did to me, but I pity her also."

He sighed. "Morgana may find her way back to the Light, my lady," he murmured. "I believe there is goodness still in her."

"You have a kind soul, Sir Mordred," she breathed, meeting his eye again.

They walked on in silence after that.

After that, he could see there was something troubling Guinevere, but he did not know how to broach the subject, or if he should. Instead, he waited.

* * *

One day, as spring began to reclaim the land after the winter thaw, they stopped on the way back from the grave of Guinevere's father, to rest the horses and he joined her in silence as she looked out over the land from their perch, in a copse just before they descended from the mountains into the woodlands of Camelot. It would be the spring solstice soon, and the first blossoms were opening on the trees.

"What does it feel like?" she asked. "To have magic? To feel it inside of you?"

"It is both a blessing and a curse," Mordred replied. "A privilege and a pleasure and a pain, all at once. It is darkness and light and heat and cold. I cannot describe it well, my lady. Why do you ask?"

"We know each other well now, Mordred," she murmured. "I have told you things I could not tell Arthur, and you have trusted me with your secret. I trust you now with one of mine. When Morgana enchanted me, I was powerless yes, but I also felt an indescribable feeling. I was filled with magic and strength and darkness, and it was the most euphoric and the most poisonous feeling I have ever experienced."

"You miss it," he breathed, as she looked down and away, in shame.

"I miss it even as I loathed it. It is tearing me apart," she replied brokenly. "I cannot tell Arthur, for he would not understand. Maybe you could."

"I understand, my lady," he replied earnestly. "To have felt something so unimaginable, then to have it snatched away, even for your own good. I understand, Gwen."

He took great risk calling her by her nickname, used only by the King and very occasionally Merlin, in moments of informality. But she did not bristle at the impudence, and instead smiled at him so warmly, his heart skipped a beat.

"Gwen, if you wish it…there is something I could do," he finished awkwardly, raising his hands slightly. Her eyes widened but she did not draw back as he gently placed them either side of her face. "Don't be afraid. I would never harm you."

"I know," she breathed, before she closed her eyes, and the sheer trust in the gesture made Mordred's heart swell. He closed his own and gathered his magic, shivering as it washed over him, before he gently poured it into Gwen.

Her gasp was music to his ears, before it trailed off into a moan of pleasure, as every facet of his being was laid bare before her, and she before him. It was a connection more intimate than any he had ever shared, or any she had shared, as he let her feel the depth and the silken vibrancy of his magic.

Suddenly she drew back, with a shuddering gasp and his eyes shot open. He was panting as well, feeling bereft as their connection faded and the glow in her eyes did too.

"Mordred.." she trailed off, sadly and he swallowed hard. He had let her see all of himself, everything, including the love he felt for her. And the love she felt for him.

While deep in their connection, they had fallen to their knees, and Gwen moved back, her hand held up to ward him off. "Gwen…" he breathed. "My love."

"We…we cannot," she murmured, rising and walking determinedly towards her horse. His heart sank as he scrambled to his feet, rushing after her. "I love Arthur. I cannot betray him…"

"I know. I do not ask you to," he caught her arm, pulling her around and against him. Her eyes met his, tear-filled and pained, as he sought for the strength to heal this. "But I know now that you love me too."

"We must never act upon it," she insisted, as he nodded. "I will not betray him again."

"I know. I promised I would serve you with my life, and that still stands," he told her earnestly, sinking to his knees as he had done when he swore to protect her, so many months ago. "I will love from afar, as I have always done, and serve you as no more than a friend if you wish it, a servant if you do not. But know that I love you, Gwen."

"I know," Gwen murmured with a sad smile. "I heard your voice, when we were at the Cauldron. I heard your voice in my head, calling my name. You helped bring me back."

Mordred could say nothing as she mounted, but his heart was heavy.

* * *

That was the last ride they ever had. The darkness closed in, and it became too dangerous for her to ride out after Helva was attacked, and Morgana encroached more and more upon Camelot's borders.

Mordred was often out with the Knights and Guinevere feared for him, just as she feared for Arthur.

The burden of her love, so newly accepted and so dangerous, weighed her down, so she was visibly quiet and pale, even enough that Arthur would ask her if she was well. She always put him off, with sweet smiles and soft words, but she knew he followed her with worried eyes, as did the eyes of another.

But then the darkness intruded into the very heart of Camelot, and Guinevere watched as it leached into Mordred's eyes. He no longer smiled and he rarely looked anyone in the eye, not even her.

* * *

When news came of a Druid girl who tried to kill Arthur, her heart sank. Something in her whispered that she was the cause of the change in Mordred.

She saw the pain in his eyes as the Druid girl was brought in, chained and limping. She was beautiful, in an earthy way, her skin browned by days in the sun, her dark hair luscious and wavy. Her eye glared back at Arthur unflinchingly.

The court's eyes were on the girl and the King as he questioned her, and she replied honestly but haughtily, but Guinevere watched Mordred.

There was longing and confusion in his gaze, and her heart broke where it had no right to. He loved her, this Druid girl, just as he loved Guinevere.

Her heart ached for him, as the girl spewed passionate vitriol at her husband. The kingdom was not perfect, and Guinevere knew in her heart that the persecution of magic-users was wrong, but it would take far kinder times to convince Arthur of that. He had been tormented by magic too long to so easily allow it to run free again.

Guinevere, however, sympathised. She had felt the wildness and the sheer exhilaration of Mordred's magic, and she had yearned for it again, although she refused to let herself ask. It was no evil thing, she knew that in her heart.

As the girl was sentenced to death and dragged out, she felt fear clutch her heart at the look in Mordred's eyes.

* * *

That night, she sought him out after she heard that Arthur had refused Mordred's plea for mercy on her behalf. The skirts of her scarlet and gold gown rippled behind her as she hurried down the corridors. She had to hurry, or Arthur would miss her presence at dinner.

She found him in his room, standing, staring at the wall. He did not move as she entered.

"Mordred," she breathed. He still did not move, as she moved towards him, placing herself before him. "Mordred, please. Speak to me."

"There is nothing to say, my Queen," he murmured coldly, and she recoiled. Gathering her courage, she reached for his hand.

"Then listen to me, Mordred," she whispered. "Please, for the love I bear you, and the love you bear for me, do not do anything rash."

He tore his hand away with a growl. "Do not ask me to watch someone I love die."

"You know that Arthur will hunt you down, and if he catches you, he will execute you both," she replied heatedly. "Do not ask it of me to watch someone I love die."

He stopped, his face pained, anguished as he watched her. Slowly, he approached her as her heart raced and her lips parted unconsciously. He reached for her hand and raised it, palm up, to his lips. The pressure of his mouth, his tongue wet against her skin, sent shivers down her spine as she gasped.

He released her with a sigh. "That is the only kiss I will allow myself to steal. By the love you bear me, please. Do not betray me to Arthur."

And with that he was gone, and Guinevere stood alone in his chambers.

* * *

Later when Merlin burst into their chambers, interrupting dinner, her worst fears were realised.

Mordred had escaped with Kara.

* * *

They were caught before dawn. Guinevere caught only the briefest glance of Mordred as he was led away to the cells, his eyes dead.

When Arthur came to her, she held him tight, as he wept silent tears of betrayal and grief into her hair, and held back her own grief, as she always did.

The next morning, she stood, as the girl was hanged, after refusing Arthur's offer of mercy. Fear choked her, and she was not surprised when the news came of his escape.

And now Arthur knew he had magic.

* * *

As soon as Arthur was gone, she changed into her riding gear. The patrols were searching to the east, and even Merlin had gone with them.

Something in Guinevere, some sense left over from Morgana's enchantment, told her where he was going. He was going to find Morgana, and Morgana lay to the west.

She saddled her own horse, and rode out at a gallop before anyone could stop her.

The forests sped by, driven by that inchoate sense, as for once duty and honour fled her mind, and only her love for Mordred remained. She had to stop him, she had to save him.

She paused for breath in a clearing, when she heard a twig break. Praying it was Mordred, she galloped towards it, crying his name.

She found him, walking determinedly away from her, ignoring her cries, as she hauled her mount to a halt and dismounted.

"Mordred! Mordred!" she caught his arm, swinging him to face her. "Stop, please!"

"Why are you here?" he spat at her, wresting his arm from her grip. She dropped the reins of her mount and strode after him.

"I had to see you were safe," she breathed, tears slipping down her cheeks. "Mordred, please. I know the anger that burns in your heart, but please. Do not go to Morgana."

"That King you so righteously defend and honour murdered the only woman I could love freely, he persecutes my people!" he shouted at her, rage finally bursting from him as he rounded on her, darkness blazing like embers in his eyes. Power radiated from him in heated waves, and Guinevere felt both fear and exhilaration as it washed over her. "Morgana was right. He will never change, he will never show mercy."

"He offered her mercy, Kara would not take it," Guinevere protested. He shook his head with a sneer.

"Again you defend him. The son of a man who murdered your own father and nearly had you burned as a witch!" he snarled back at her, and she flinched.

"Arthur is not his father's son. He saved your life!" she shouted back, her hands curling into fists. He turned his back, and marched away as she stood panting, in the centre of the clearing. Grief and anger broke from her, and she screamed at him. "Curse you, Mordred! I curse the day you ever set foot in Camelot. Curse you!"

"And I curse the moment I ever laid eyes on you, Guinevere _**Pendragon**_!" he snarled, turning to face her with an ugly, dark grin as she glared at him through her tears. "You have brought me nothing but heartache. Like your husband, all you have done is taken and used me, my loyalty bedamned. I curse you, Queen of Camelot. You are little better than a cheap tavern wench."

Her hand was flying before she could blink, and she slapped him across the cheek. They stopped, both shocked by her outburst before the rage inside her demanded movement again, and she struck him again and again, her blows landing on his chest and neck. At any moment she expected him to use magic to throw her aside, but he did not. He grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head to a tree trunk, leaning into her.

Finally, exhausted and spent, she stopped struggling, sobs shaking her form. He gathered her into his arms, releasing her wrists and even then, she weakly fought him, cursing him under her breath as she thumped his chest with her fists.

"I cannot do this," he breathed against her hair. "I cannot be angry with you, even now."

She quieted, finally feeling his arms around her as she had once dreamed, and inhaled his scent deeply, the scent of woodland and magic. "I know you loved her," she breathed. "She was your chance for love that could be returned freely. I am so sorry."

He held her to him tighter, as she stroked his hair. Peace filled them for one moment, before he spoke again. "I am glad you are here, my lady, but why did you come after me?"

"Because…I love you," Guinevere whispered, raising her head. "It is wrong and a treason but I cannot help myself. I could not bear to see you harmed. Please, Mordred, do not go to Morgana."

"Morgana is the only hope we have of change, of freedom, Gwen," he told her solemnly. "I see that now."

"It is because of Morgana that this has happened at all!" Gwen protested. "Mordred, please…"

"Do not try to dissuade me, Gwen," he whispered. "I cannot be turned from my path. I go to where I truly belong."

"You belong with me, with Arthur, in Camelot," she argued, as he released her, stepping back. His face was once again stoic, cool and blank.

"And return to the place where I watched the woman I love in the arms of another?" he asked, as her heart sank. I have lost Kara, and now I give you up too, Gwen. I will not return to that servitude. If you love me, let me go."

"And if the time comes, will you kill me?" she asked, raising her chin defiantly. He looked stricken for a moment, then stepped close.

"No, never," he whispered. For a moment he was silent, then he grasped her face and drew her close. "When Arthur is gone, we can be together. Morgana loved you once, I can convince her to spare you…"

Guinevere recoiled in horror. "I can't believe what I'm hearing," she gasped. "If you kill Arthur, I will never be yours. This is not the man I have loved from afar for nearly a year."

She backed away, shaking her head but Mordred was faster, grabbing her arms and hauling her close. She fought him again, but she was tired and he too strong, as she found herself once more too close to him, their lips brushing with every laboured breath.

Guinevere felt her eyes drift down to his mouth, open, panting harshly, and the temptation flared. As her eyes darted upwards, she saw the same desire flare in his eyes, one they had always denied but not this time. She didn't know what deformity existed in her character that made her love three men, but she could not fight it any longer. Maybe it was destiny; she had been fated to love Arthur, to love Lancelot, to love Mordred, and she had been fated to betray the one she had pledged herself to.

But that sounded a little too convenient for Guinevere, but she pushed it all aside, as Mordred's warm, moist lips brushed hers.

Wordlessly, she closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his. Mordred's kiss was deep and passionate, the hunger of a desire always denied flaring between them. Arthur was gentle and tender, but Mordred kissed her as a starving man, parched by thirst, and she kissed him back in the same vein.

She felt his magic brush against her mind, and tasted his tears in her mouth, as she felt herself pushed back against something solid and rough, then his body was against hers, unskilled but instinctively pressing against hers.

Her cloak pooled on the ground around her feet, as his hands scrabbled over her waist, seeking the ties of her riding gown. Her hands, hungry and desperate, sought to undo his chainmail, tearing it from him, ruffling his curls as she pulled the hauberk over his head. His hands swept boldly beneath her skirts and she cried out as a burst of pleasure interrupted the urgency.

They paused, both seeking the other's eye, cheeks wet with tears but hearts full, as Mordred raised one hand to caress her cheek, her curls loose and tangled around his fingers, her bodice undone and her skirts rumpled. He looked little better, his hair disheveled and his body bare but for his breeches and boots.

"This is how I will remember you," he ground, his voice a harsh, husky growl of its usual timbre. "Mine."

Their lips met again, and Mordred tenderly laid her on the ground, protected from the hard earth by the springy moss and the soft folds of her cloak.

Their tears flowed and mingled as one, even as their bodies did the same, hands reaching out only to entwine and cling to the other, both conscious that this was the first, and the last, time they would ever come together.

Guinevere cried her release to the skies as Mordred roared her name, his magic crashing over her in wave after wave, prolonging the pleasure until she was a mindless, incoherent wreck of a human being. She could barely remember her own name.

All she was conscious of was the warmth and the love in Mordred's arms and kiss, as he laid her gently down, pressing a kiss to her limp mouth one last time.

When she awoke, she was alone. Mordred was gone.

* * *

Guinevere returned to Camelot, her heart heavy, both with her betrayal and the pain of loss. One way or another, someone she loved would die. As if from a distant past, she remembered Gaius telling her of a Druid prophecy, that a Druid was fated to kill Arthur.

She shivered in the cold of her chambers, alone and in the dark, as Arthur did not return from patrol, and she was alone.

* * *

Mordred stood at Morgana's side, her champion and Knight, but inside he was only numb. Whereas before Guinevere's pursuit of him, he had been full of rage and hatred, now he was just numb and filled with loss. He had lain with the woman he loved, the woman he would die for, and his heart and soul could not forget that fact even as he mourned Kara.

He had not loved Kara enough. If he had, she would be alive. He would have used his magic, killed the Knights and Arthur, and taken her away. But he did not, because he could not harm Guinevere.

And Kara had paid the price for his impossible love.

But now, now what he would do, what he had to do, would save them both. He would set her free from Arthur and take her away after Morgana had her throne.

They stood in the forest, after the spy had departed, back to her lover's arms, and Morgana gloated.

"Without Emrys' protection, Arthur will fall before us!"

"I do not doubt it," he murmured, thinking of Guinevere. Was she safe? Well?

"Do not forget what we're fighting for, Mordred," Morgana warned him. More and more, he was regretting his decision to join her, but he was bound to her now. He could not return to Camelot. He must see this through to its bloody end. "We're fighting for freedom from fear and prejudice."

"I have not forgotten," he snarled, turning on her. "But I wonder if war is the only answer."

"You cannot reason with a man like Arthur," she turned to him, alarm flaring in her mad, haunted eyes. "You found that out to your cost."

"He may yet change," Mordred protested weakly. If Guinevere were Queen unchecked, change might already have come about. "I believe there is goodness in him."

"You're forgetting something, Mordred," Morgana replied, gently. "You buried Kara not ten days past. What compassion did Arthur show her?"

He looked away, pain spiking within him once more as he thought on his failure.

"So I ask you for the last time: are you with me or not?" she continued threateningly, eyes never leaving his face.

He closed his eyes and exhaled heavily. _Forgive me, Gwen…_

"I am with you, Morgana," he told her firmly. "I will restore you to your rightful place. You have my word."

"Good," she smiled, relieved but he continued before she could speak more.

"But I have one request," he breathed. She eyed him warily but gestured for him to continue. "Spare the Queen. She is good and kind, she cares for the people. I know you loved her once, spare her when this is over."

Morgana started, watching him with a frown before realisation dawned. "You love her," she said. Her features hardened. "She will be a threat to us. She will not accept my rule-"

"Then I will watch over her," Mordred growled warningly. "I will take responsibility for her."

Morgana looked at him, before she smiled. "Alright. When this is over, Guinevere is yours," she replied, already turning away. "Now come. I have something for you."

* * *

In the following days and nights, Guinevere gave all of herself to ease her betrayal, though Arthur did not know of it. She accompanied him to the battlefield, and when he asked it of her, she gave her body unstintingly. She did love Arthur, even if she had an awful penchant for betrayal.

As the battle drew near, fear drove its spike deep into her heart. So much was at stake, and she would lose someone she loved. If Arthur did not die, Mordred would die, either at the blade of Camelot, or executed.

If Arthur died…then so would she. She would not give in to Mordred again. She would die with her people; her duty was to them as their Queen.

So when Arthur left her for the last time, she donned simpler garb from simpler times, rolled up her sleeves and helped Gaius tend to the wounded.

She did not allow herself to think of Arthur or Mordred or Merlin, or any other loved one. She just concentrated on patching the wounds of the men who fought for her, who fought for Camelot. She tried to forget about the life of the man she had killed when he burst into the tent, wielding an axe and cutting down Camelot soldiers.

When they heard the first explosions, like great cracks of thunder, they rushed out, to find a cloaked figure on the mountaintops, striking down the Saxon army with a staff that spat lightning. Awe filled her, as she stood beside Gaius.

The sorcerer almost single-handedly drove back the Saxon lines, as Arthur rallied the soldiers and led the charge.

"Who is that?" she asked, as a strange little smile lit Gaius's wizened face.

"Someone truly remarkable," he replied quietly. Suspicion sprang up in Guinevere, as she turned to face Gaius.

"You know him?" she asked curiously.

"Let's just say he deserves our gratitude," Gaius murmured, before turning away. Suspicions whirled freely in her mind then, as she took one last glance at the mysterious sorcerer, before turning back to her duties.

* * *

As she bent over a fallen Knight, she felt a deep pain and an overwhelming sorrow within, as she gasped and recoiled. Gaius was at her side in a moment.

"My lady? My lady, what is it?" he asked, solicitous despite all that demanded his attention. Fighting back tears, Guinevere shook her head.

"I thought I felt…no. No, it is nothing," she breathed, shaking her head to clear it but the sorrow did not fade. Gaius watched her, unconvinced, but she shook off his hand and forced herself back to work.

But deep in her heart, she knew. Someone she had loved was dead.

_Guinevere…_

She froze as a familiar, silken voice echoed in her mind, as a hand rose to her mouth in horror and grief. Mordred.

* * *

Mordred strode through the battle, cutting down any who foolishly opposed him. He felt a tremor deep within when Emrys came, and he watched with horror and awe as the sorcerer revealed his full power. They never had a chance against such might, such power massed against them. Morgana was wrong.

This war could not be won.

And it was too late for him. He had betrayed the Once and Future King, and Emrys, and there was no way back for him now. A fatalistic resignation settled over him then, as he at last understood the tales of his childhood, the words of his protectors and teachers from his boyhood.

Here he was, always fated to be this. The traitor, the murderer of Arthur.

There was nothing he could ever have done to fight his fate. As he cut down soldier after soldier dispassionately, feeling nothing as they fell with accusation and anguish in their eyes when they looked up at their murderer, he searched for Arthur.

He might as well play his part to the end.

He found him, a little way back from the fighting, kneeling beside a dying Knight. Once, the sight would have touched him but now he felt nothing as he strode towards the doomed King, his once friend and master.

Arthur heard him, rose and parried his thrust and he had the advantage. Mordred waited, heart racing even as peace settled over him. _Do it. Do it, Arthur, do it…_

But when he saw who his attacker was, Arthur hesitated and Mordred struck, watching his arm, guided by fate, as it lunged with his sword, piercing deep into the King's side.

The final betrayal.

It filled Arthur's eyes as he fell to his knees, and Mordred watched him coolly. The final betrayal, of Camelot, of Arthur, of the prophecies of Albion and the Once and Future King.

The final betrayal of Guinevere. She filled his thoughts then, and as determination filled Arthur's eyes, he sighed. "You gave me no choice…"

Her name echoed in his mind as Excalibur bit deep into his heart, shattering it entirely, and he felt peace wash away the pain once more. He smiled, a deathly grimace, before he closed his eyes and fell, away from Arthur, away from everything.

All that remained before Mordred fell, for the last time, was the image of Guinevere, radiant and beautiful in his arms, dancing before his eyes.

_Guinevere…_

And then Mordred, the great traitor, the killer of Kings, knew no more.

* * *

Guinevere was certain of Mordred's death even before Leon came with news of the Saxons' defeat. She knew not how, but she had felt it. She hoped he was at peace now.

Her thoughts turned swiftly to the other man she loved, her lord and husband. "And Arthur?" she asked desperately, praying for his safety.

Leon's weary, ashen features only answered her worst fears. "We'll keep looking," he promised her, and she swallowed back the tears.

"Thank you," she whispered, before turning away. The tears sprang up again, hot and strong, but she pushed them back. As another wounded soldier was carried towards her on a stretcher, she gathered her strength and pushed aside the grief. "Oh, I'll need some fresh water!"

The grief would have to come later. Later, when they were safe and Arthur was found, she would grieve for Mordred, for the men they had lost. She would not lose hope in Arthur yet.

Soon, after the two hundred men returned, they were forced to abandon Camlann. Guinevere kept going, kept working and caring and helping her people, as the search parties sought out their King, and then the morning after they returned to Camelot, Gaius disappeared.

Leon brought only more bad news, as she stood at the windows of their chambers, clad in her mauve court gown, as refugees and the wounded piled in ever higher numbers into the citadel. It had kept her busy, but in moments of calm, her thoughts turned once more to Arthur.

She could not think of Mordred. She would not.

"Three more patrols have returned from the White Mountains, my lady," Leon told her, "There is no sign of him."

Guinevere closed her eyes, forcing back the tears. No, she would not give up hope. She could not lose Arthur too. "He must be somewhere," she insisted quietly.

"We have spoken to every villager. Every man, woman, child…there has been no word," Leon replied gently, but even she could hear the hopelessness beginning to creep into his voice.

"He is out there," she replied firmly.

"We will keep searching," Leon agreed, but she knew he held little hope they would find their King alive.

"He is alive. I know it, I can feel it," she continued. Just as surely as she had known Mordred was dead, she knew Arthur was still alive. Her mind conjured up the image of the mysterious sorcerer from the battle, and for a moment, she felt comforted. Her suspicions came back to her, and she spun as Leon turned to leave. "Who else is still unaccounted for?" she asked, her voice strong and firm once more. The voice of a Queen.

"Gaius," the Knight replied.

She frowned, her suspicions crystallising. "He's not been seen?"

"Not since the battle," Leon answered before leaving her alone, to ponder and to hope, even as all others began to lose it.

When Gaius returned, Guinevere rushed to his side, filled with hope and anger at his desertion.

There was a sadness and a loss in the old physician's eyes that filled her more with dread, and she wondered what had caused it to grow there.

"Gaius?" she breathed hopefully, as he stopped with Gwaine by his side.

"My lady…" he sighed wearily.

"Tell me," she murmured, dizziness overwhelming her for a moment but she pushed it aside. It had been the same for the past few days.

"He's alive," Gaius told her, and she collapsed inwards, thanking any deity that existed that it was so. For a moment, she allowed herself to be weak, before Gwaine's question brought her back to the matter at hand.

"Then why isn't he with you?"

"He is wounded," the physician replied, before turning to Guinevere, a grave look on his face. In his outstretched hand, was the royal seal of Camelot. "He wanted me to give you this, my lady."

Guinevere took it, her tears breaking free. Arthur would only send her this if he believed he would die. He would only give her this because he was naming her his heir. _Please, no. I cannot lose him. Not Arthur too…_

"Where is he?" she asked tremulously.

"There is a place where he may be saved. Merlin is taking him there as we speak," Gaius explained, and she stared at him in shock.

"We must send the Knights. Ready as many men as you can," she turned to Gwaine, who looked ready to fly to his King's side. Merlin alone could not protect the King.

"No, my lady!" Gaius protested firmly. "Merlin can cope by himself."

"Merlin!?" she gasped incredulously, but again her suspicions rose once more, as Gaius's admonition that they must trust him calmed her even as she protested. "How can one man be as strong as an army?"

"Morgana's forces are still searching for Arthur," the physician explained, making her blood run cold. Even a small force would be easily seen and tracked. If there were any delay… "Two men travelling alone stand a much better chance of evading her, especially if she has no idea where they're heading."

Guinevere started at the implications in Gaius's words, as he glanced at Gwaine. Forced to accept his wisdom, she listened in horror as he told her that Eira, the girl Gwaine had rescued from Stawell, had been Morgana's spy in the citadel since her arrival. She watched Gwaine's heart break, even as he accepted Merlin's word, and they plotted how to expose her and bluff Morgana into believing Arthur and Merlin were headed another way.

* * *

She felt nothing as they arrested the girl and she was sentenced to death. Her pleas for mercy, for Gwaine's mercy, left her cold. She supposed she had changed greatly since she became Queen. Especially now.

Gone was the warmth and the kindness that once filled her. Instead, she had grown up and she had become ruthless when she needed to be. With every day that passed she grew colder and number, as hope dwindled.

Only one bright spark remained. Her suspicions were proven correct.

"He's always been there at Arthur's side," her words rang in the air, as Gaius's wise old face only smiled, and her heart lightened for the first time in days.

"Indeed."

"The sorcerer in the battle. You knew who he was," she moved forward, the skirts of her scarlet gown gliding behind her. The diadem on her forehead weighed less heavily with every step, as Gaius replied in the affirmative. "Do I know him?" she asked, her breath halted in her throat. "Please Gaius, answer me honestly."

"Yes," he replied, finally, and her breath hitched. Her smile grew, and she was happy for the first time in so long. "He'll take good care of Arthur."

So much now made sense, so many mysteries over the years, and now she knew. Merlin was a sorcerer. The revelation should have filled her with anger, or betrayal, but she felt only joy and hope. With Merlin at Arthur's side, hope was reborn.

"Yes, I'm sure he will. I'm pleased," was all she said, as Gaius bowed and left, and she turned back to the window, to continue her vigil in the Great Hall alone.

But hope once more bloomed in her heart.

* * *

Fear once more smote her when Gwaine and Percival were discovered missing. It grew in her heart, as something inside her began to whisper that time was running out, that soon, it would be too late. For her, for Arthur and for the kingdom.

When Percival returned, without Gwaine, she knew.

She sat on the throne in the Great Hall, as Percival told how he and Gwaine ambushed Morgana at Brinevd, and were captured in turn. Once more, she fought back tears when he recounted Gwaine's death and how he tracked the King and Merlin to the shores of the lake of Avalon. His voice hardened when he told of how he found Morgana's corpse, pierced by a sword. The trail ended at the shores of the lake, with no sign of Arthur or of Merlin.

She looked down at the cold seal in her hands, the old gold stark against the blood-red velvet of her gown, and sought inside for the strength she needed. Arthur was gone, Merlin had failed.

Camelot was her responsibility now.

She nodded to Leon, whose sad eyes held hers compassionately, before he turned and addressed the assembled Knights and courtiers, his voice strong and clear. "The King is dead. Long Live the Queen!"

Guinevere raised her head, her feelings buried deep inside, and promised herself she would not betray the trust Arthur had placed in her.

* * *

Only later that night did she allow herself to mourn. For the first time, she mourned for the deaths, the pointless, mindless brutality of this endless war. She mourned Arthur, her strong, noble husband who deserved far better than her.

She mourned for Percival, for Leon, for Gwaine, for all those who had lost brothers-in-arms.

She mourned the loss of her closest friend within the citadel walls. Something in her, some sixth sense, told her Merlin would never return to Camelot. His destiny lay with Arthur. She even let herself mourn Morgana, and hoped she had some measure of peace at last.

And finally, she let herself mourn Mordred. The man she had loved from afar, the boy ruled by fate even though he fought it for so long. He had pledged himself to her, he had bled for her, and she knew he had died for her. The wound he had dealt Arthur was not so fatal as the wound Arthur had dealt him.

The following days and weeks were not easy. She had to hide all her grief as she tried to rebuild a kingdom in ruins, and some of the nobles muttered at the thought of a serving-girl ruling over them.

The Knights and Gaius were her greatest friends in those days, and they made her smile even as she sickened and grew weak.

* * *

The day Gaius told her she was with child, she felt no surprise. She had begun to accept it even before he told her, but pain spiked within her.

For she did not know if the child was Arthur's, or Mordred's.

One night, four months after Arthur's death, after meeting with the other rulers of the United Kingdoms to discuss new treaties of alliance, she lay on her bed, exhausted and trembling. She longed for the touch of her husband, for the touch of her lover, and she cried as she thought of the child within her, who would never know their father, and she would never know who had given her this final, precious gift.

Maybe that was her penance, her sin for her weakness. Never knowing.

Guinevere closed her eyes, and dreamed of kinder times.

* * *

Nine months after the battle of Camlann, Guinevere delivered a son. As she held the newborn boy in her arms, she pondered what to call him.

She could not call him Arthur. To do so would be an insult if the boy was not his son, but neither could she call him Mordred. Instead, she called him Elyan.

At least she could honour the memory of her brother, and the honourable, gentle Knight he had been.

Elyan grew into a strong, handsome boy. He was clever and kind, and he so reminded her of his namesake that sometimes she wished to weep. The night his eyes flamed gold as a curtain burst into flame, when he woke screaming from nightmares, she felt her heart both break and soar. But still, she could not certain.

Gaius was still with them, and she sought out his counsel. She feared he suspected the truth, but he offered no accusations, no recriminations. He advised her to seek out the Druids.

The next month, she set about legalising magic, and stopped the persecution of its followers. She revealed Elyan's magic to the Court, and invited the Druids to the citadel, to instruct her son.

He proved a powerful and intelligent sorcerer, and she felt a burst of pride as his power developed and he used it with wisdom. The people were hesitant, and afraid, but she soothed their fears and created laws that would protect magical and non-magical peoples alike. No more did sorcerers have to hide, or run, from persecution.

One day, when Elyan was nearly a man, she took him on a journey, to the shores of Avalon, and told him the story of King Arthur. As the waters lapped the shore, she told him the truth of his origins, and her sins, and feared to look into his eyes.

He made her, gently but inexorably, and he smiled at her. There was no accusation, no loathing in his gentle, wise eyes. "Mother," he murmured. "How could I hate you for that? You have given your life to the Kingdom, you have bled for it, have wept for it and given it everything. Any sin you committed has long been paid in full. Love is not something to be ashamed of."

She smiled through her tears, as his arms came around her and held her.

As they sat there, together, her eyes drifted to the shadowy isle in the distance, and she called out with all her soul.

_Forgive me, Arthur. Goodbye, my love._

* * *

Elyan reached manhood and she gladly gave the throne up to him. The trials of ruling a kingdom had sapped her of her health and her youth, and as the days of Elyan's rule turned to years, she began to sicken and waste away.

Gaius had long passed and the new physician could do nothing for her. Guinevere was glad of it; her time had come.

With the last of her strength, she bid her son well, gently refusing his pleas to remain with him, and rode, not to Avalon, but to a small grove near the plain of Camlann. She had said her goodbyes to Arthur long ago.

* * *

Her bones ached as she reached the place, where a pile of rocks marked the grave of a fallen warrior, a sword sunk deep into the earth before it, unharmed by the years that had passed.

It had a notched blade.

Guinevere sank to her knees, swathed in her cloak and smiled slightly. "Hello, Mordred," she breathed. "I am sorry I did not come before but I could not. I had my duty and I could not forsake my people. I could not forsake him, Mordred. I am sorry, forgive me, my love."

She said no more, but sat by Mordred's grave, peace washing over her as she felt death draw near.

"Gwen," a voice called her name, and she looked around, to find a tall, thin man in ragged robes and a travelling cloak, a stave in his hand, watching her intently. His black hair had grey in it, and his eyes were sad.

Merlin.

She knew that she too was changed. Grey streaked her hair, and her eyes were heavy with the penance she had paid for years. "It is good to see you, old friend," she breathed. "The years have been hard without you."

"I could not return. My duty was to Arthur, and it remains so," he replied softly. "He is the Once and Future King. Albion will have need of him yet."

"I am sorry I shall not see him when I pass, if so," Guinevere sighed, looking away to Mordred's grave. "I needed him, these past years. I was not meant to rule."

"No, Gwen," Merlin shook his head, as he came closer, kneeling by her side and taking her hand. "You were the Once and Future Queen. Just as it is Arthur's destiny to rule, and one day to rise again when Albion has need of him, so it was your destiny to be his Queen, and then to rule on your own when he could not. Albion is well-served and your son will rule well."

"He could use a court sorcerer," she replied, as he smirked wryly, the first sign of the cheerful boy she remembered under his aged, weary features, shining through.

"Maybe I will look in on him, from time to time," he admitted, before he sobered and they both looked at Mordred's grave. "You did well, Gwen."

"I was weak, I betrayed Arthur's trust in me," she protested quietly. "But I could not stop myself loving him, loving them both."

"Love is never wrong, Gwen," he replied firmly. "And even if you had not, there is nothing you could have done to spare them their fates. Mordred was destined to betray Camelot and kill Arthur, just as Arthur is destined to rise again, one day. Nothing could have changed that, and maybe at least, they gave them both some measure of happiness before they passed. We all deserve that."

"I was never destined to truly possess either," she murmured. "Duty and Destiny took them all from me."

"And yet, without your love, they would not have been half as great as they were," he told her earnestly.

Thank you, Merlin," she whispered. Weakness swept over her, and her sight grew dark. The ride had been too much, and she collapsed into his arms. "You have grown wise, old friend," she smiled weakly, as he held her tenderly. "I go to my death, happy that I have seen you one last time."

Tears sparkled in Merlin's tired eyes, but they did not fall. "Sleep well, Guinevere. Be at peace," he whispered, as her eyes closed and she fell into a deep sleep from which she never awakened.

* * *

He lifted her up, his thin arms belying the strength within him, and laid her down beside Mordred's grave. The time of the Once and Future Queen was over, and she was released from her penance. At least in death, she could be with one man she had loved, even if the other would always be beyond her reach now, in death as in life.

He built a cairn for her and set it aflame. He stood watching until it burnt out, before he collected some of the ash, and left the rest to lie, on the earth where Mordred was buried.

He travelled to the lake where he had put Lancelot to rest, so many years ago, and scattered some, then to the lake of Avalon and scattered a portion there. The rest he bore to Camelot, and gave it into King Elyan's keeping.

The King built a monument to his mother, and placed her ashes inside, the statue of the great and beloved Queen, the last monarch of the Golden Age of Camelot, standing watch over the kingdom until the day it fell and passed into legend.

* * *

_She stood in mist, unafraid and strong, for the first time in years. The grey was gone from her hair, and her form was restored to its youthful vigour._

"_Guinevere…"_

_A familiar voice called her name, and she moved towards it, her body clothed in flowing garments of white, and the mist seemed to shine. Everything shone._

_A figure emerged from the mist, and her heart skipped a beat. Tall, dark and strong, his blue eyes held hers lovingly, as he stepped forward, hand outstretched._

"_It is over, my love," he breathed. "Your trials are over. You are free."_

"_Mordred," she whispered. Tears filled her eyes but she was overwhelmed with joy. All the fears and grief of the years fell away, as she took his hand._

"_Come, they are waiting for you," he breathed, and as they walked together, hand-in-hand through the mist, they emerged._

_Her father, strong and full of life, looking at his daughter with pride._

_Elyan, his arms wide as he called her name._

_Lancelot, his eyes soft and loving, as he smiled._

_Gwaine, smiling his best, cockiest smile as he tossed his dark hair back._

_Gaius, Percival and Leon stood a little further away, watching her with warm, welcoming looks. With a rush of joy, she recognised her mother, emerging from the mist beside her father._

_And then she saw Morgana, freed of the darkness and madness that had ruled her, beautiful and gentle once more, as she smiled with tears in her eyes, clad all in white and silver, as she welcomed her in a soft, warm voice._

"_Where are we?" she asked, looking to Mordred as the mist cleared, and a green land opened up before her eyes, lit by a golden sunrise._

"_Home," he replied._

_She looked for the face of another, but knew she would not find him. Arthur's destiny still awaited him and Albion would one day need him again. It would be a long time before the Once and Future King could come to rest._

_But she could. At last._

_The days of never knowing, of uncertainty and grief and pain and fear and loss, were over._

_As Mordred's hand tightened around hers, surrounded by her family and her friends, she took a deep breath and smiled._

_They were free from destiny and duty, at last._

* * *

_**The End**_


End file.
